


lin·gui·ne (liNGˈɡwēnē/)

by Operamatic



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), F/M, Flash Fic, Food Porn, Sloppy Makeouts, Tumblr Prompt, copious misuse of squid ink, sexy pasta making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:16:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8386861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Operamatic/pseuds/Operamatic
Summary: Italian - Noun[lit.] Little Tongues
Adrien teaches Marinette to make squid-ink pasta.  Things get messy.





	

“Adrien, this seems gross,” Marinette said, nose wrinkling in conjunction with her pout. **  
**

“Just give it a taste, lots of people like it!”  Adrien wheedled back, a giddy smirk playing along his mouth, “I hear it’s good for you too, there was an article about it somewhere.”  He bit at the knuckle of his index finger, an obvious tell that he was holding back a fit of laughter.  Marinette rolled her eyes, but didn’t move away.

“You say that but I still find it hard to believe,” she shot back, an eyebrow incredulously quirked.  Finally with grim determination she locked Adrien’s gaze with her own, heart only clenching slightly at the way it still seemed to make him gasp, and darted a wet, probing tongue out.

She winced.

“UGH, IT’S SALTY!” she gagged, rearing back and devolving into a coughing fit.  Adrien broke down into peals of giggles.

“Of course it’s salty, it’s squid ink!”

“Traitor,” Marinette frowned and reached for the nearby tap, vainly trying to rinse the foul fishy taste from her mouth.  An attempt to stick her tongue out at her boyfriend only resulted in the realization that the ink, which he’d foisted upon her in a teaspoon, had dyed most of her tongue black.

“Trust me, you’ll like it better once it’s cooked into this linguine,” he motioned back down to a recently arranged mound of semolina flour.

“And yet you still made me taste it raw, who’s idea was it to let you cook again?” Marinette sipped her water dejectedly, but even so her feelings of betrayal were already dissipating at the sight of Adrien, aproned and haloed in flour dust, smiling at her with undisguised delight in the middle of her kitchen.

“If I recall correctly,” he replied as she sidled up to him and looped her arm easily around his own, “Someone practically somersaulted over her sewing machine when I made the offer.”

“Yes well, you neglected to mention the _squid_ part of this scenario,” she stuck her tongue out at him again for emphasis.  Adrien merely chuckled and dipped down to peck her chastely on the lips.

“Aw, scared of a little ink?  Where’s your sense of adventure, My Lady?”

Marinette bristled at his cocky smile.  Curse the gorgeous fiend, he could play her like a fiddle.

“ _Fine_ ,” she sighed, not even bothering to hide the smile tugging at her lips, “So what do we do now?”

She stood aside patiently as Adrien explained how to make a well in the flour, handing her eggs which she cracked one handed and separated with ease.  Into the well went the yolks, two extra whole eggs, a pinch of salt and finally the offending squid ink, which he dribbled carefully from a little bottle before setting it aside.

“How did you learn to make this?” she asked, earnestly observing the way Adrien set to work folding the ingredients together.  She stared mesmerized first at how the ink blended smoothly into the white flour, shooting through like dark veins until finally turning the dough a rich silky black.  

Then her focus shifted, unsurprisingly, to glance across the firm planes of Adrien’s back muscles as he kneaded.  Back, forth, back, forth across the smooth wet surface of the pasta dough, his shoulders rolling fluidly, his arms held straight in front so that the swell of his biceps was unmistakable under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.

He reached a hand up, stained black at the fingertips and palms, to push away some hair that had fallen into his eyes, and unknowingly smeared spare flour across his brow in a long pale streak.  Marinette found herself wetting her lips, swallowing slowly at the sight.

Seemingly unaware of her attention, or perhaps merely welcoming it as a matter of course, Adrien shrugged and set about scraping the remains of the sticky dough from his hands.

“About ten years ago when I was…I think I’d just turned eleven, we spent a summer in Naples,” he patted the slick surface of the dough as he said this, testing it before reaching over for the bench knife that Marinette had provided for him. He began to fold more of the semolina into the mixture with the knife, talking calmly all the while.

“Mom loved Naples,” he began, “She liked being near the sea.  Father had business in the area, of course, but somehow she managed to get him to let us rent a little house near Amalfi and have a whole month to ourselves.”

Marinette found herself fixating on Adrien’s ink-marked hands as he spoke, carefully setting the knife in the sink before returning to the dough, folding the dark blob in on itself until it became a firm and craggy ball.  His voice took on a soft, almost lilting quality, murmuring as he attended to the dough with such consideration and care.

Suddenly, and without warning, he picked up the ball and smacked it down on the floured countertop.  The sound shocked her out of her stupor, and her eyes shot up to catch his own glittering green ones.  He smiled impishly.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice still low and soft, “Where was I?”

“A month near Amalfi,” Marinette replied breathlessly.

“Oh right,” he pushed the heel of his hand into the dough, spreading it out in front of him with a low grunt, before picking it up and tossing it down again.  The smooth slapping noise, combined with the sure strokes of Adrien’s strong forearms made something inside Marinette’s abdomen curl in on itself, flickering warm at the base of her spine.

“So yes we were staying in Amalfi, I swam so much that summer that my hair bleached even lighter,” he ground the edge of his hand firmly into the yielding flesh of the dough, and Marinette bit back a whimper.  “And I developed a taste for seafood like you wouldn’t believe.  So Mom arranged to have our neighbor, the man we were renting from, teach us how to make his family specialty-”

“Can…um,” Marinette interrupted, and Adrien paused, turning to her with interest.  She suddenly felt unquenchably parched, as though the heady sea-salt flavor of the squid ink had consumed any last lick of moisture from her mouth.  She tried again, biting the corner of her lip, “Can…you show me how?”

He blinked at her for a moment, glancing down as if just now realizing how close she stood to him (and oh she was standing so close, hovering just at his elbow, eyes wide and sincere), before silently lifting an arm for her to slip under and take up a position in front of him.

Hesitantly, she placed her hands onto the slab of dough that Adrien had been working away at, before glancing over her shoulder at him expectantly.  A momentary confusion crossed his features, and Marinette didn’t really blame him.  By all accounts she ought to be an expert at kneading dough, pasta or not.

“Maybe,” she murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “we could do it together?”

A crackle of understanding seemed to ignite in his face, eyebrows shooting up as he nodded and cleared his throat.  Without a word, Adrien leaned forward until his arms bracketed hers, hands splaying out on either side of her own, thumbs just barely brushing along the edges of her pinkies.  

“Ok, so,” he rasped a little, “Let’s spread uh…spread some more flour first.”  

In response Marinette methodically grabbed a fistful and with a practiced hand sprinkled the white powder onto the black surface of the pasta.  Adrien watched rapt as she spread it out, standing flush against her back, before muttering a hushed, “Ok…that’s good.”  

His breath came halting and slow at her ear, and she didn’t feel the least bit guilty about leaning tenderly into his open embrace with a soft hum, her bottom glancing ever so slightly against his pelvis.  

Then, with about as much subtlety as a cannonball, she pushed forward with her palms against the dough, stretching it lengthwise, and arched herself into his hips.  Adrien let out a groan, tilting forward into the feeling of Marinette grinding against him.

She bit back a throaty laugh, settling for a muted chuckle instead, continuing to knead with a little too much vigor, hips rolling in time with her strong arms.  Every time she did so she rubbed harder against Adrien, who rather than move and lose their contact had braced himself on the counter.

“Wow,” she smirked back at him, punctuating her words with yet another torturous undulation, “Pasta dough sure is _tougher_ than bread.  How am I doing?”

Adrien let out a long hiss, head lolling back and a pained smile playing across his lips.  He bent forward to match her posture, chest pressed full against her shoulders, and she swore she could feel his heart hammering like an engine through the thin fabric of their shirts.

“You’re wicked, my Lady,” he groaned, leaning in to touch her forehead with his, “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Payback for dyeing my tongue, Kitty,” she snickered back, before shifting in his arms to face him and thoroughly kiss his brains out.  She ran her hands, still coated in flour, along his jaw and into his hair, mussing it beyond all hope of salvation.  He in turn murmured low into her mouth, hips canting into hers, pinning her in place while his grip remained tight on the countertop.

“You know,” he whispered, pulling away slightly as she ran her tongue along the edge of his mouth, “Your lips are all smudged black too.”  Marinette squeaked at that, a hand flying up to her mouth as if to wipe away the color.  Adrien’s own hand stilled her though, catching her powder white fingers in his pitch-stained ones, and bringing them to his lips.

“It’s ok,” he smiled, flour sticking to his mouth where her attentions had left it wet, “Unlike you, I happen to like the taste of squid ink.”  He dove back in, tongue slipping easily past dark smudged lips and white teeth, and Marinette responded in kind, rising up onto her toes, arching back against the counter to press more fully into his body.

Suddenly she felt her elbow collide with something, and a sound, not unlike glasses clinking together, followed by a soft _glug-glug-glug_ , echoed through the stunned silence of the kitchen.

“The ink!” she cried, leaping away from the counter as Adrien dove to right the upended bottle, screwing the loose cap firmly into place.

“It’s ok!  It didn’t spill too much!” he exclaimed, before looking down at his dripping fingers, “…Oh.”

“I…don’t suppose you can work it into the dough?” Marinette tried, biting her lip apprehensively.  Adrien just chuckled and shook his head, flour falling out of it a light shower.

“I think just a wet towel will do,” he smiled, holding his glistening hands away from him as Marinette soaked a rag in the sink.

“It really does get everywhere,” she remarked, soaking up the remnants on the counter before handing the rag over to Adrien, “There’s even a spot on my elbow!”  She twisted her arm for him to see.

Almost instantly, Adrien’s warm smile became a devilish grin, dimples showing prominently in his flour-dusted cheeks.  Without warning, he reached out to press five more black dots with his fingertips along the length of her arm.

“Now you have more, you’re almost a real ladybug!” He exclaimed, chuckling at the way she stared openmouthed and incredulous from her arm to him and back.

“Rude!” she cried, a competitive smile betraying her true lack of outrage, before scooping more flour into her hand and flinging it at him in a burst of white.  Adrien returned fire by ducking down and sneaking a wet, ink-slicked hand under Marinette’s tank top, earning him a shriek.

She hooked a leg around the back of his knee, twisting them both until they’d landed in a heap on the floor and she’d pinned his hands down, her own fingers starkly white against the stains along his palms and wrists.  He made no effort to wriggle out of her grasp, instead seeming to take full enjoyment of Marinette sitting astride him, shirt still slightly rucked up to show the smudges left by his wandering hands.

She held his gaze a long moment, before allowing her eyes to flit over to where her fingers intertwined with his.  “So what happens now?

“That’s entirely up to you,” he said, arching an eyebrow.  Even as he said this though, she had taken gentle hold of his wrist and was raising his hand towards her face.

Marinette’s tongue darted out and licked her lips.  “What about the linguine?” she whispered.

Adrien’s response came out low and slightly strangled. “It’ll keep.”

“Good,” she said, before taking his index finger fully into her mouth.

Adrien squeaked, finger firmly held by the gentle scrape of Marinette’s teeth.  She ran her tongue languidly along each knuckle, lapping up any last remains of the ink before taking a long, sucking drag and pulling it out of her mouth with a _pop_.

“You know, you’re right,” she said pleasantly, staring down at his wanton expression before hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and pushing them languorously down her hips, “I think I am warming up to the taste.”

**Author's Note:**

> One of @siderealsandman's anons asked him "Can people write pasta in a sexy way?" and like the quickening I knew my time had come.
> 
> It occurs to me this is the second nsfw Adrienette fic I've written that takes place in a kitchen, which probably says something about me.
> 
> Come kinkshame me over at miraculousandgrand.tumblr.com


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